


The Doppler Effect

by Naughty_Yorick



Series: The Doppler Effect [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Dopplers, Dubious Consent, Feelings Realization, Hurt/Comfort, Jealous Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Making Out In Public, Mistaken identities, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Voyeurism, because making out with a clone is dubious as hell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-24
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:46:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22389655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naughty_Yorick/pseuds/Naughty_Yorick
Summary: It’s hard to tell what Jaskier's thinking, his back still turned towards Geralt, but if anything his shoulders relax more, and then he brings his hand down and begins to trace his fingers lightly over the back of the doppler’s in little circles. Geralt can only watch, transfixed by the way the bard’s fingers dance over the top of his hand. No – he reminds himself – not his hand. The doppler’s hand. Which just happens to look a lot like his hand.A routine hunt takes longer than anticipated, and Geralt returns to find Jaskier sharing a table with a face-stealing monster. He needs to get the bard away from the doppler, but Jaskier appears to have very different intentions for the person he thinks is Geralt of Rivia. Updated to include a chapter from the Doppler's POV!
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: The Doppler Effect [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1638550
Comments: 185
Kudos: 1955
Collections: Abby's Witcher Collection, Angsty Angst Times, Jaskier or Geralt/others (with or w/out eachother), Just.... So cute...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi all! This fic is tagged as dubcon due to the dubious nature of making out with a clone. Technically there is consent - but what good is consent when you're not actually kissing the person you think you are?

Geralt fucking _hates_ kikimoras.

Worse than that - he hates being deceived.

This hasn’t been the worst contract – it barely registers in the multitude of hunts and fights and killings he’s slashed his way through in the past few months – but he’s tired, and hungry, and _filthy._ As he trudges back towards the village, boots unpleasantly squelching, he hopes that Jaskier has been able to procure him a bath in the inn. He’d left him with their bags and their coin, with strict instructions to find rooms and food. As expected, Jaskier had complained, begging to follow Geralt on the hunt.

“How am I supposed to spread the good word of the great White Wolf if I don’t accompany you on hunts, Geralt?”

“It’s _drowners,_ Jaskier. How many drowners have you watched me kill?”

“Well I hardly keep count, do I?”

“How many?”

“… lots.”

“Exactly. There’s no song here, bard. Just six drowners in a stinking swamp in the middle of the night. You won’t even be able to see what’s happening out there.”

“But—”

He’d thrust their bags at Jaskier, who'd nearly dropped them. “Find rooms. One with a bath. Find a tavern. I want food by the time I’m back.”

“Geralt, I really must—”

He had scowled at him, and Jaskier had fallen into pouting silence.

For all his complaining and tantruming and his uncanny ability to _always_ get in trouble, Jaskier was personable and gifted with an easiness that meant with any luck he would have been able to talk his way into a place to eat and rest that night. Perhaps even for the next two nights, if the coin he gets during the evening's performance is good enough.

The infested swamp had been barely ten minutes’ walk from the village, so Geralt had left Roach munching contentedly on slightly soggy hay and set off on foot, only a handful of potions packed in a pouch on his hip and his silver sword slung over his back.

It wasn't until he’d been in the swamp, ankle-deep in shit, that he'd realised the half a dozen drowners that the alderman had hired him to dispatch were, in fact, eighteen drowners and one extremely large, extremely angry kikimora. A large, angry kikimora which is now dripping off of his head and shoulders in thick, black chunks.

This isn't the first time a village has downplayed the severity of their infestation, and Geralt is silently cursing himself for not realising that the panic in the alderman's eyes and the harsh reek of fear that had been seeping from him was not, as he had assumed, caused by the monsters living on his doorstep, but were rather the tell-tale signs of a man deliberately misleading a witcher; a desperate act from a desperate community.

These sorts of trials are becoming more common. He always receives fair pay for his troubles – or as fair as the peasants in these backwater villages can afford to be – but the truth is becoming more and more stretched. “A few rotfiends” can easily mean “fifteen rotfiends and a gravehag”. It's frustrating, traipsing out into the middle of nowhere ready for an easy hunt, only to find yourself facing down a furious, half-dead beast.

Not that he _can't_ face them down, of course, but with fair warning he can be more adequately prepared and will almost certainly finish the job sooner – which is the best outcome for both himself and the villagers.

For all his frustration, Geralt finds it hard to lay the blame entirely at the feet of the people who hire his services. The number of them willing to lie to a witcher – itself a greater risk than a few bloated, reanimated corpses – is telling. War has swept through these villages, killing and scarring and destroying the earth and the communities. People are poor, and desperate. It isn't just witchers in these lands anymore who’ll hunt monsters for coin – mercenaries are becoming more common too. More common, and more likely to wind up dead. Those who aren’t killed on their first hunt charge extortionate fees for half-finished jobs. Worse than them are the thieves and pretenders, who promise to dispatch a monster but instead make off with the village’s coin.

Lying to a witcher isn't a particularly smart course of action. But for many of these people, it's the only way to ensure their own safety, the safety of their children. A witcher won’t half-finish a job, no matter what he sets out expecting. The peasants can’t risk him turning them down, so spin him a half-finished tale knowing that he’ll finish off whatever is lurking in the swamp, or the graveyard, or the mountains.

But still; the point stands. A job that should have taken half an hour has taken three, and the walk back is taking twice as long, his muscles stiff and aching. It's slowing him down, and adding to his foul mood.

As he approaches the village, he’s relieved to discover that there _is_ a tavern here, warm light spilling from the windows and illuminating the muddy road. He can hear the voices of those inside, chatting, laughing – the easy talk of people who can feel hopeful for the first time in months, knowing that at least _one_ of their problems is being dealt with.

There’s also, he notes, no singing, which means that Jaskier has either finished his set already or is waiting for an encore to best manipulate the situation into as much coin as possible. This isn’t unusual – _Toss a Coin to Your Witcher_ certainly garners more tips when the aforementioned Witcher is present – even if his presence usually requires nothing more than leaning against the bar and scowling at anyone who gets too close.

There’s a third option, of course. That Jaskier isn’t even _in_ the tavern. That thought unsettles Geralt for reasons he chooses not to dwell on, and he hurries his pace towards the establishment.

He pushes open the door and peers into the crowded room. It’s packed – people sitting or standing or leaning in every spare space. This is typical of these sorts of towns. Staying at home and locking yourself in your house is safe – but safer still is the comfort of fifty or so other people. Deep down, all humans are the same; panicky and instinctive. They gather in taverns and inns and tell each other there’s comfort in being around friends. The truth that none of them want to admit, of course, is that the odds of surviving a monster attack are better in a crowd of sixty people than your bedroom, alone.

He glances around the teeming room in search of Jaskier. No one has noticed him in the darkness of the doorway, and he has no desire to step into the room stinking of swamp-rot and kikimora guts. He needs to attract the bard’s attention and have him point him in the direction of the inn so he can wash before returning to collect his pay and, finally, eat. 

There. He’s holed up in a corner, facing away from the door, his lute slung across his back and the bright blue silk of his doublet standing out amongst the sea of grey and brown wool. On the small, wobbling table in front of him are two mugs. 

_Quick work, Jaskier,_ Geralt thinks, somewhat bitterly, as he watches Jaskier’s fingers drumming out a tattoo on the table top. His leg is twitching too, bouncing up and down beneath the table. Geralt’s too far away to register the smell of the bard, but even without his enhanced senses he can tell that Jaskier is nervous. He wonders, vaguely, who he’s been flirting with now to warrant such a response. 

Well, he’ll have to intrude on Jaskier’s pleasant evening to find out if he’s managed to procure them rooms. He hopes that his partner has a strong stomach and won’t be too put off by the sudden appearance of a witcher. Or maybe not – he’ll be back, after all, and he has no desire to spend his evening entertaining one of Jaskier’s conquests, or worse: being _ignored_ in favour of one of them.

He’s about to head into the tavern proper when Jaskier’s whole demeanour changes. His back straightens and he calls out a friendly greeting as someone approaches the table, the crush of people parting around whoever it is. They extract themselves from the crowd, and Geralt recognises them immediately, hissing through his teeth as he ducks back into the shadows.

He watches, with wolf-like focus, as Geralt of Rivia places two slopping drinks on the table and sits opposite the bard.

He swears under his breath. The person sat opposite Jaskier is a doppler, that much is immediately clear. Geralt stares as the bard and the mimic clash their cups together in a toast before drinking deeply. Now he’s been joined by his drinking partner, Jaskier has stopped his relentless drumming on the table top, but his knee is still bouncing wildly.

Geralt observes them as they drink and talk. This is a dangerous situation for everyone involved. Every instinct is urging him to run across the room, grab the doppler and drag them into the street, but it’s far too risky. He’s no idea how long the doppler has been in the tavern, and the sudden arrival of the _real_ Geralt will spark panic – especially as he’ll be the one assumed to be the fraud.

Jaskier, he is the first to admit, can be a liability at the best of times. Geralt can’t predict _how_ he’ll react when he realises he’s drinking with an imposter, but he can safely bet that chaos will likely follow, which means he has to resign himself to waiting. There’s an alcove in the doorway – a terrible architectural choice for a village constantly ravaged by monsters and bandits – which he sequesters himself into so he can watch the duo until they leave. The darkness and shadows hide him fairly effectively, and he stills himself, slowing his heartbeat, doing his best to simply stop existing. 

None of the other patrons notice him – not even the few who drunkenly leave the tavern, swaying straight past his hiding spot.

The tavern is too noisy for even his heightened hearing to pick out their conversation, but it seems friendly enough. The doppler is doing a very good impression of Geralt, largely stoic, only briefly allowing himself to smile at the bard. Jaskier, as ever, is undeterred by his partner’s impassiveness, carrying the conversation with laughs and wild hand gestures. 

The bard says something – something crude, Geralt thinks, by the sudden change in body language, the sudden tension as he waits to see whether the witcher is going to laugh at him, ignore him or chastise him. From his spot in the shadows, he can see the doppler respond, their lips moving. 

And then Jaskier goes entirely still, then shifts his weight again, crossing and uncrossing his legs. He sits up a little straighter. Even from across the room, Geralt can see that his ears have turned red as he continues with the conversation, laughing a little louder now. 

There’s something in the way Jaskier is sitting that Geralt isn’t sure he recognises. He’s gotten used to reading humans’ emotions through their body language, and the bard is no exception. In fact, their years together means that Geralt can read him better than most. Yet the way he’s sitting is both sure and unsure, and while he leans across the table with practiced ease Geralt can see the tension in his back and shoulders like a coiled spring.

Their cups are soon empty, and there’s a brief argument – a familiar debate about who’s round it is – before Jaskier rolls his eyes, picks up the spent cups and winds his way back to the bar. There’s something in the way that he walks that catches Geralt’s attention. It’s the beer, he tells himself, just the beer and the close crowd of people that’s making him sway his hips like that.

The doppler appears to have noticed too. Geralt watches as his imposter’s eyes track down the length of Jaskier’s body before settling firmly upon his arse. Geralt doesn’t care for the expression plastered across his own fucking face – smug and wanton and possessive.

_Fuck._

With Jaskier out of the way, Geralt takes a moment to take stock of the creature pretending to be him. The doppler has done their research, that much is clear. They’re scuffed and dirtied as if just returned from a hunt – as if returned from a routine job to slaughter six drowners, for example. Their hair is stained with mud and blood, still pulled into a messy half-knot at the back of their head. They’re armed, too; the dual swords still strapped to their back.

Dopplers are… tricky. They mimic not just their victim’s body, but their mind too – tapping into old memories, forgotten thoughts and feelings, letting themselves spread out, filling in all the cracks of what a person really _is._ Which means to the rest of the patrons in the bar and, more importantly, to Jaskier, there’s no real difference between this fake Geralt and the real thing. Any old adventures the bard brings up – and he almost certainly _will_ bring one up – will be lodged somewhere in the doppler’s memory. They’re a perfect copy.

Well: almost perfect. 

A witcher’s mind is… different. Assuming the doppler has been tracking him for some time, it’s safe to assume that they possess all of Geralt’s most recent memories, all his thoughts. But the buzzing, chaotic mind of a witcher is not easily governed. The mutations are too much to truly control unless you’ve been moulded by them, unless you’ve grown up with them shaping the way you interact with the world.

It had taken Geralt decades to truly achieve full control over the mess that the mutagens made of his mind. For a doppler, who’s only been piloting it for a moment, the task is impossible. It means that while the doppler _looks_ like a witcher, he can’t _act_ like one – can’t pick through the cacophony of noises to track a single sound like a real witcher can, can’t focus his too-sharp vision on a shadowy figure hiding in a corner. With any luck, the doppler will be struggling to control an overwhelmed mind, fighting back the sensory excess. 

There’s also the problem of signs – Geralt has heard stories of dopplers who _can_ utilise witcher signs when transformed, but the process is difficult enough for a well-practised witcher, let alone a doppler. He has to hope that _this_ doppler doesn’t know what they’re doing. It will help, later, if he needs to fight them off – or prove who he is.

Jaskier returns five minutes later, managing to squeeze around the other patrons without spilling too much beer. He places the refreshed mugs on the table, hesitates for a moment, then sits back down, scooting his stool closer to the doppler. The doppler treats him to a tight-lipped smile, reaching out for his cup and leaning back against the wall, casually starting up conversation again.

Hunched in his alcove, back stiff, Geralt wonders just how many beers they’re going to drink before they finally leave. In Geralt’s body, the doppler will be able to drink till the sun comes up, and Jaskier will almost certainly try to match him drink-for-drink. He may be here for a while.

As he drinks, Jaskier is beginning to relax. The tension in his shoulders seems to be dropping, and his free hand is constantly moving – pawing at the table, running through his hair, resting on his chin, on his face. Geralt notes, with interest, that his leg is _still_ bouncing beneath the table – if anything, the movement more exaggerated the deeper he gets into his cups.

He’s not the only one who’s noticed the anxious twitch. The doppler says something with a little smirk, and Jaskier laughs, and then the doppler reaches out and places a firm but gentle hand on Jaskier’s knee. The bard instantly goes still. His ears are pink.

The visions Geralt had of pulling the doppler into the street are quickly replaced with visions of pushing through the room, grabbing the doppler and lopping their head off right there and then. But that would be impulsive, and dangerous, and leave him open to attack. With the doppler dead, there’d be no way to prove that he was the _real_ Geralt, and even if he _could_ prove that the other had been an imposter, the villagers would no doubt set upon him before he’d even had a chance to explain.

He grits his teeth, suppressing the low growl that’s building in the back of his throat, and presses himself further into the shadows. 

Jaskier may act like a fool most of the time, but he’s seen him navigate these kinds of interactions before. He’ll brush the doppler’s hand from his knee with a laugh, twist around in his seat, and busy his hands with his drink, simply _ignoring_ the tension.

He waits. 

Jaskier does _not_ do that. It’s hard to tell what he’s thinking, his back still turned towards Geralt’s hiding spot so he can’t see his face, but if anything his shoulders relax _more,_ and then he brings his _own_ hand down and begins to trace his fingers lightly over the back of the doppler’s in little circles.

This is… unexpected. Unprecedented. Geralt can only watch, transfixed by the way the bard’s fingers dance over the top of his hand.

No – he reminds himself – _not_ his hand. The doppler’s hand. Which just happens to look a lot like his hand. 

Finally, the doppler leans in, and mutters something into Jaskier’s ear. The flush that’s been building around his ears now spreads down Jaskier’s neck and, without a second thought, he grabs and drains his beer before swiftly standing, nearly knocking the table over in the process. The doppler reaches out in the same instinctive way Geralt himself would have done, grabbing the bard’s elbow before he falls. Now he’s facing the doorway, Geralt can see Jaskier’s flushed, grinning face. His hair is sticking up on one side where he’s been worrying it with his fingers.

There’s a long moment where the doppler has a hold of Jaskier’s elbow, before finally letting go and allowing the younger man to lead him from the tavern. They walk straight past Geralt’s hiding spot, managing to completely miss him, and out into the street. Geralt waits for a few seconds – long enough to ensure that no one is watching him – then darts out after them. 

The street is, thankfully, deserted. Out here, in the still air, he can finally hear their conversation as he slinks behind them, feeling distinctly unsettled as he watches _himself_ from behind.

“Actually, Geralt, that’s the thing… I’ve been meaning to tell you, there was a _slight_ problem with the, ah… the room situation. I mean, there _is_ an inn here but it isn’t what I’d call _large,_ so—”

“Out with it, Jaskier.”

However unsettling it is to stalk himself, hearing himself talk – watching someone else with his face speak with his voice – is significantly worse. In the silence, he can hear Jaskier’s heartbeat quickening. He edges forwards, aware that he’s lessening the distance between them, aware that the closer he is, the more likely he is to be spotted.

“I did _ask,_ of course, but you know how these little towns are, and—”

_"Jaskier."_

“The issue is there was only— Oh!”

The doppler suddenly grabs Jaskier’s arm, pulling him in so they’re chest to chest. Jaskier stutters into silence, eyes wide. Geralt quickly presses himself against the wall of the nearest building, thankful that the moon is hidden behind a thick curtain of cloud. He holds his breath, waiting.

“Uh… Geralt?” 

“Thought I heard something.”

“…Right.” Even in the dark, Geralt can see Jaskier’s Adam's apple bob as he swallows nervously. He’s still pressed against the doppler’s chest, their hands on his shoulders. The doppler finally looks away, and Geralt slowly begins to reach for his sword. 

The doppler peers down to where Jaskier is leaning on him. They hum - an annoyingly accurate approximation of the real thing, Geralt thinks – and let go of the bard’s shoulders. _Yes._ An opening. Now all Jaskier needs to do is back away, to open up the space between him and the imposter, and Geralt can leap in, sword in hand.

But once again, Geralt is reminded how very _surprising_ the bard can be. Even after the doppler has let him go, he remains standing there, pressed against their chest. His eyes are wide and sparkling in the dark, his hands bundled into fists in the material of the loose tunic that’s a stich-for-stich replica of the one that Geralt is currently wearing beneath his armour. It seems to grow even more silent in the already empty street. Geralt can hear Jaskier’s heart thundering, heavy breaths escaping him.

There’s a long, prolonged moment where no one moves. Geralt _can’t_ move, can’t risk the doppler noticing him. The doppler is staring down at the bard, and the bard staring back up at them with an intense expression Geralt isn’t sure he’s seen him wear before. And then the slightest movement as the doppler raises a hand – raises one of _Geralt’s_ hands – and places it, with surprising gentleness, against the side of Jaskier's face.

There’s a sudden breeze fluttering down the street, past the pair and towards Geralt’s hiding place, and the hot smell of pheromones hits him like a slap to the face but before he can react the doppler leans down, the movement sudden and urgent, and crushes their lips against Jaskier’s. 

Geralt has to bite his tongue to stop himself from calling out, from swearing. If Jaskier’s heart was thundering before, it’s _deafening_ now, and as the doppler’s lips meet his he lets out a small, soft noise – a half-gasp, half-moan – that sends a jolt through Geralt’s stomach and makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. 

Jaskier’s hands disentangle from the doppler’s shirt and snake their way up their chest, one coming to rest in the crook of their neck and the other reaching up, the bard’s fingers tangling in the doppler’s hair, nails pressing into their scalp. In response, the doppler grabs Jaskier’s hips and eagerly pulls him closer, pulls him in. The bard moans again, eyes closed, and Geralt is hit with another wave of the smell of heat and lust and pheromones.

The doppler’s hands press into the dark fabric of Jaskier’s trousers, kneading at the soft skin beneath. Jaskier isn't a _small_ man, Geralt knows, but he's less broad that the witcher, his muscles less defined, and compared to the bulk of the doppler’s form he looks suddenly fragile in a way Geralt hasn't noticed before.

No – Geralt corrects himself. _His_ form. It’s the doppler kissing him, the doppler grabbing his hips, but its _Geralt’s_ lips, Geralt’s hands, Geralt’s fingers. Jaskier is kissing the doppler, but he’s pressed against Geralt’s chest, tugging supple fingers through Geralt’s hair.

This is bad. This is _extremely_ bad, but he finds himself frozen to the spot, his hand halfway to his sword, unable to look away. Jaskier’s hands grasp at the doppler in a frenzy, grabbing and groping. His hands move southwards, past their hips, towards their arse.

He squeezes.

Geralt, half-horrified, half-entranced, feels his cock twitch. He considers, for a brief moment, turning his sword on himself.

_Fuck._

He tries to ignore it, tries to focus on the hot ball of rage in his chest instead. He needs this to stop, but if he leaps out now anything could happen. They’re still so close, hands tangled in fabric and hair, and a surprise attack could leave Jaskier wounded, or – 

Geralt’s dealt with dopplers before. People like to crow about how dopplers are misrepresented, how they’re kind and gentle, but he’s never met one he didn’t want to punch. They’re not evil, of course, but they’re rarely entirely _good_ either: just like humans. Their habit of switching skins whenever it feels convenient – or useful, or necessary, or often just _amusing_ – rubs him the wrong way. They’re one of those blasted species that tends to land on their feet more often than not. They aren’t, truthfully, known for their violence or their fighting skills, but he’s still not keen to risk it when, theoretically, they could turn into _anything_ while they're still cosied up to his – to _the_ bard. 

He swallows heavily, still trying to ignore his own arousal, the sudden quickening of his own pulse. In the street, the doppler finally releases Jaskier with another low hum. Now they’re parted, he can hear Jaskier’s breathing again – ragged and gasping – and see the little clouds that escape his lips into the cold air. His eyes are still sparkling, but now darker somehow. His expression is urgent. Hungry.

The doppler smiles – a little half smile that Geralt is all-too familiar with, showing just a hint of teeth, eyebrows raised. They hook a hand around the bard’s arm and begin to lead him further down the street, pulling the slightly dazed man along. Geralt follows behind, keeping to the walls and shadows, when the doppler takes a quick glance around then ducks into a side street.

“But the inn is- mmf,” Geralt can hear Jaskier begin, breathlessly, before being tugged closer again and silenced under another crushing kiss. There’s that noise again – that little sigh that’s somehow both the nicest and worst sound he’s ever heard – and then they’re at it again and Geralt isn’t sure how much more of this he can take.

Luckily for him, this embrace is over quickly and the pair dash into the side street. He stalks them from the shadows, pressed against the crumbling wall of the nearest building. He hides himself in the darkness, letting himself blend in, but the longer he watches the more he’s certain that the pair are too distracted to notice him anyway. 

The side street is more of a wide alleyway – nothing more than a courtyard where the houses back onto each other, old straw and discarded rubbish littering the ground, heaping in corners. It certainly isn’t the most attractive place in the world, but this doesn’t appear to deter the doppler or, to Geralt’s surprise, Jaskier, who he’s always known to be fastidious about these things.

He can still hear the bard’s heartbeat, still fast and loud, and the soft sound of his heavy breaths. There’s a corner to the right of the courtyard where two awkwardly shaped buildings meet, into which the doppler guides him, pressing against his chest so Jaskier has no choice but to step backwards, letting himself be steered into the space, hidden from the main road. As he backs up, the lute that’s still hanging from his back clunks into the stone behind him, and Geralt watches in shock as Jaskier struggles out of the strap and then – horror of horrors – lets it drop to the ground with a twanging thump. 

He’s never seen the bard treat his lute with such disregard before, and while the muddy ground is soft enough to ensure it isn’t damaged, the simple gesture is enough to confirm that Jaskier is in more trouble than he thought. He reaches for his sword and wraps his fingers around the hilt, readying himself.

With the lute out of the way, the doppler grins – Geralt can hear them chuckle, the sound of his own voice like a dagger in his chest – and steps forward again until Jaskier is pressed fully against the wall with nowhere to run. He edges forwards to better see what’s going on, and in the dull light he can see Jaskier’s flushed face, his dishevelled clothes, his tousled hair. He can see the fabric of his silk doublet rise and fall with his deep, gasping breaths, his mouth hanging open.

The doppler, pinning him to the wall with the bulk of their body – of _Geralt’s_ body – reaches up a hand to Jaskier’s neck, thumbing the patch of skin between his jaw and neck. The air is full of the sound of heartbeats and harried breathing and the smell of sweat and heat and salt so potent that he can almost taste it. Beneath all of those, the sharp tang of fear.

Geralt huffs out a hot breath, feeling the way his own heart is thumping in his chest, the heaviness of his lungs. A deep, squeezing feeling grows in his chest, threatening to overwhelm him. He still can’t look away, caught up in the smell of salt. He takes another breath, fighting to keep it even, focusing his senses on that sour fear smell.

He grips the sword, feeling the sturdy metal beneath his fingers, ready to move. But the doppler moves first. They lean into Jaskier, pushing the hand not pressed on his neck into his hip, and meets their mouths together in another kiss with a low, lusty rumble. Geralt watches as the doppler shifts, moving one of their feet forward, slotting it between Jaskier’s ridiculous boots. Jaskier complies, leaning forwards as his feet shift and his legs part, allowing the doppler access. They press together against the wall, and the doppler breaks off the kiss, moving from his lips down his jaw to his neck. There’s a noise that Geralt can’t quite place, and then the doppler takes Jaskier’s hip and pulls him closer again, grinding his crotch against their leg as they bury their head in the crook of his neck and then - 

Jaskier moans Geralt’s name. His breath hitches and his voice cracks but it’s unmistakable, breathless and eager. The doppler repeats the motion with a low hum that rumbles from the back of their throat and the bard gasps again.

“Ah - Geralt - _fuck_ -”

Geralt swallows. His arousal is undeniable now, his body reacting to Jaskier’s voice instinctually, immediately. 

This has gone too far. He unsheathes his sword, smiling at the sound of silver scraping against leather. He channels his energy into anger, trying to refocus his body. He silently thanks the gods for the control the mutagens grant him as he feels his energy shift: he has no desire to leap into a fight with a fucking erection.

“Hands off the bard.”

They break apart. Jaskier, still pinned to the wall, is facing his direction over the doppler’s shoulder and the look of bliss on his face is quickly replaced by one of shock, his eyes wide, and suddenly the tart smell of fear is overriding the others. 

“Uh… Geralt…” He’s addressing the doppler. Geralt has to fight the urge to pull them apart himself, his hand gripping the sword so tight its nearly shaking.

The doppler turns, their hands still infuriatingly clinging onto Jaskier, to look at Geralt – to see the intruder on their fun. They scowl. They _still_ don’t let go.

“I said,” Geralt repeats, stalking forwards, “ _hands off."_

Jaskier swallows nervously, his nails gripping tighter into the doppler’s shirt. “What’s going on, Geralt?”

Geralt recognises that expression – the expression Jaskier always wears when he’s gotten himself into danger, the pleading look that means, succinctly, s _ave me, Geralt._ Seeing him turn that expression to someone else – to someone with the fucking _audacity_ to steal his fucking face – makes Geralt’s blood boil. He’s full of hot, tingling rage, eager to be spent. He should drag the imposter back by their hair, slice their neck open, cut their balls off for even _daring_ to touch his– 

His–

_Fuck._

He’s jealous. He’s unbearably, _monstrously_ jealous. The realisation hits him hard, but he doesn’t have time to dwell on it, so channels it outwards, closing the space between himself and the doppler, sword up. 

The doppler turns back to Jaskier. “A doppler,” he says, in Geralt’s voice. “Easily dealt with.”

Geralt scowls at the lie. “I’m no doppler.” 

“No? Then I suppose you’re just my long-lost twin?” They raise an eyebrow, baiting him. 

“Fuck off.”

Finally, the doppler lets go of the bard, pulling away and untangling themselves from his grasp, walking forwards to meet Geralt, peering at him with yellow, catlike eyes.

“It… it looks just like you...” Jaskier mutters, rooted to the spot, watching the doppler approach Geralt.

“It _is_ just like me. Face, body, memories, thoughts… everything.”

Jaskier stutters into silence, watching them warily. 

“Enough.” Geralt snarls, raising his sword, “Enough with the teasing, doppler. We’re both well aware that _you’re_ the imposter. Drop the act now, and maybe I won’t have to kill you.”

The doppler smirks. “Are we? Is this an argument you think you can win, doppler?”

Geralt is sick of this. “What’s your plan? Kill me, assume my identity, pretend you’re a witcher until, what? Someone tries to hire you and you get your throat ripped out by a ghoul?” 

The doppler begins to reach for their own sword, their eyes fixed on Geralt. He readies his own: illusory or not, their sword is still effective. He can’t risk letting his guard down with an opponent so perfectly matched to him. 

“You really want to do this?” The doppler says, staring him down, his expression fixed and smug.

“Fine.”

Geralt brings his sword swinging around. The doppler is just as quick and agile as he is, easily blocking the blow with their own sword, leaping backwards. Geralt swings again – is blocked again – and then the doppler attempts an attack, coming low. Geralt dodges the sword, knocking it out of the way with his own, feet skidding across the mud.

The muscles in his legs jar painfully as he staggers, and he remembers his disadvantage; the doppler hasn’t just taken down an angry kikimora. He needs to be more defensive, conserve his energy instead of wildly attacking. He parries another attack then realises the doppler is trying to back him against the wall, so skids away on the slippery ground.

“We don’t have to do this, doppler.”

The doppler's eyes glance, for a moment, towards Jaskier. "Yes," they say, "we do."

They swing again, but Geralt is too quick, spinning out of the way and kicking out his leg into their knee, making the imposter stumble. He quickly backs away, panting, as the doppler rights themselves, sword flashing through the air.

Jaskier, pressed into the corner on the far side of the courtyard, is rapt – and Geralt realises how bizarre the fight must look to someone watching. He and the doppler mimic each other’s attacks almost perfectly, dodging and parrying identically. Their swords clash overhead as they both fail to land a blow on the other.

After a particularly vigorous exchange of swords, Geralt finds himself once again with his back to the wall, his leg stinging painfully. The doppler grins, striding forwards, sword above their head. With no time for a counter, Geralt focuses his energy, extends his hand and blasts out an Aard sign, throwing the doppler back onto the soft mud, the sword flying from their hand across the courtyard. Before they’ve had a chance to get back up, Geralt’s on them, his boot pressed to their chest.

From the wall, there’s a spluttered cry – “Geralt, no!” – which he ignores, however much it pains him. He stares down at the doppler. They’re about to twist themselves back up, when he hits them with another Aard sign, the force of the spell winding them at such close range.

“Go on,” he growls, “Show me a sign, witcher. Throw me off. Burn me. _Control me."_

The doppler scowls at him and manages to push his foot from their chest, backing up a few feet before struggling back to their feet. They reach for their second sword.

“Steel?” Chides Geralt, mockingly, “For a doppler? Poor choice.”

The doppler grunts and rushes forwards, but Geralt is quicker, throwing up Yrden. The doppler collides with the sparkling purple barrier, yelling as the spell’s energy fizzes up their skin. They stare at Geralt with furious eyes from behind the magic barricade. Geralt raises a single eyebrow – a challenge.

“I don’t need to prove anything to you, doppler,” they growl, one hand still clinging to the steel sword.

“No?” Geralt’s satisfied that the sign will hold, so turns to look at Jaskier, whose face is a mess of panic and confusion. “What about him?”

Jaskier’s head snaps around and he stares at him. He looks terrified – there’s another little stab in Geralt’s chest. 

“What… what about me?”

“Do you want him to prove himself?” 

Jaskier looks between the two men. “I… but he…” He shakes his head. “ _He’s_ Geralt.” He says, finally, nodding towards the man trapped in the sign.

“Are you sure?” Jaskier stares at him. He _needs_ the bard to understand. “He’s not…” he sighs, “It’s a _trick,_ Jaskier. They followed us and took my place while I was knee-deep in kikimora shit.” 

“…No.” It’s quiet, and sad, but Geralt can tell Jaskier doesn’t quite believe his own words.

“I…” he almost apologises, but stops himself before he can. “Yes, Jaskier.”

Jaskier turns back to the doppler. His voice is shaking. “Prove it, Geralt. _Please."_

The doppler can’t hold his eye. Geralt lowers the barrier and steps back, fingers flexing around his sword. The doppler raises a hand, determination and concentration on their face. They fold their fingers into the sign for Igni, focusing, channelling their mind. 

Nothing happens. They try again, and again, then Yrden, then Aard, their fingers uselessly forming the shapes. Jaskier watches, his face growing increasingly distressed.

“Give in, doppler.” 

They shake their head, and Geralt is horribly aware that they’re still armed, the sword still clasped in their hand.

“Doppler—”

They scream. They swing their arm back and Geralt braces for a blow, sword up, but before they can thrust there’s a crunching, somehow harmonic _crash_ and the doppler’s eyes shift out of focus. The sword tumbles from their hand, landing in the mud with a soft _thump,_ and they tips forwards onto their knees.

Behind them stands Jaskier, trembling, grasping the destroyed remains of his lute. Geralt is impressed, raising his eyebrows. “Well done.”

Before the doppler has time to work out what's just happened, Geralt presses the tip of the silver sword against their neck. As soon as the metal touches skin there’s a loud, steaming _sizzle._ The doppler gasps in pain.

“Show your true form.”

Geralt presses harder, the smell of scorched flesh filling the alleyway, and a bead of blood appears where the sword nestles in their neck. The doppler growls in Geralt’s voice, wincing a little at the bite of the sword, at the reaction of the silver against their skin.

“It’s _over."_ Geralt stares himself down, daring them to move. “You can’t win. Turn back.”

The doppler snarls again and, gathering all his restraint, Geralt presses the sword harder into their neck, tracing a shallow cut down towards the crook of their throat. The blood comes faster, now, bubbling against the silver.

The doppler relents. They give Geralt one last, scathing look before transforming. Their skin begins bubbling and writhing as their clothes and swords melt back into their mass. Their hair pulls back into their head as their skull deforms, bonelessly undulating.

There’s a horrified gasp from Jaskier as, finally, the transformation is complete. Geralt stares at the misshapen thing in front of him. 

“I would leave, if I were you.” His words are heavy, and hollow. 

"Kill it, Geralt.” Jaskier’s voice makes both of their heads snap around. The splintered neck of the lute hangs limply at his side. His eyes are dark. The doppler’s expression drops, and he looks pleadingly at the bard, then at Geralt. Geralt stares him down, _daring_ him to give him a good reason to follow through with Jaskier’s request.

“We didn't… _please_ , Jaskier…” The doppler reaches one of their grey hands towards Jaskier, who recoils and leaps back, snatching his hand away like he’s been burnt. He looks disgusted.

Geralt lowers the sword. “If I see you around here again, doppler, I will kill you. If I hear any more stories of… mistaken identities… I will kill you. Are we clear?” 

The doppler nods frantically.

“Then fuck off.”

The doppler does as they’re told, leaping up and dashing away down the alleyway, into the street. Geralt sheaths his sword with a grunt. 

Its silent – silent save for the thundering of Jaskier’s heart and his shallow breathing. Geralt turns to him, goes to reach out to him, but he takes a step back, looking him up and down with distaste and distrust.

“Jaskier—”

“What the _fuck_ is going on, Geralt?”

“Ah…”

He can tell that the bard is terrified, the smell of fear coursing through his blood overriding everything else, but his eyes are burning with fury. The remains of the wrecked lute drop to the floor. 

“Where _were_ you?”

“There was a kikimora.”

Jaskier glares at him impatiently. “And?”

“And I killed it. The doppler must have known about it and taken my place while I was… gone.” 

“It was _you_. I mentioned that fucking alghoul from last month and he laughed, Geralt! He remembered!”

“They’re shitty fighters, but doppler magic is powerful. They mimic memories, thoughts… everything.”

“A shitty fighter? He nearly took you down!”

“Because _I’m_ not a shitty fighter. Fucking _dopplers_.”

“Indeed,” Jaskier huffs. He’s acting flippant, but his heart rate is still high, still dripping with the smell of fear.

Geralt has a sudden thought, feeling a fresh surge of panic. “Did he give you anything? He bought you a drink, did it taste wrong? Bitter?”

“It was just a pint, Geralt!”

“Did it taste unusual?”

“No!”

He grabs Jaskier’s face, peering at his eyes. He wriggles under his grip. “What are you—”

“Your pupils are dilated.”

He backs away a little and Jaskier releases a quick sigh of relief which is quickly stifled as Geralt grabs his jaw, pressing his thumb and forefinger into the soft flesh of his cheeks, forcing the bard’s mouth open. Jaskier squeaks in protest, eyes wide, as Geralt leans in, hovers his nose above his mouth and takes a deep inhale, searching for the scent of a potion or drug or even the spicy aftersmell of a curse. There’s nothing – nothing aside from beer and pheromones; the hot and urgent smell of lust, all muffled under the tartness of fear.

He lets go, and Jaskier hurriedly backs away. “What the _fuck?"_

“Smelling for drugs. Potions. Herbs. There’s dozens of different concoctions they could have slipped into your drink without you even realising.”

“I… what? _Drugs_?”

“Or a spell, or a curse. Anything that could make you act…” he trails off. He’s never been shy around Jaskier, often engaging him in his bawdy conversations about his latest lay, but he can’t bring himself to say it out loud: anything that could make you do _that_ with _me_. “Different.” He finishes, rather lamely. 

Jaskier frowns at him. “I’m fine,” he says, simply. His cheeks are pink.

“Hmm”. Geralt pauses, aware that that’s an inadequate response. Jaskier certainly doesn’t _look_ fine, but after all, what’s the point of a curse or a spell or a potion if the victim _knows_ they’re being used?

“What’s… all this?” Jaskier cuts off his train of thought, gesturing at the now congealed gunk tangled in his hair, coating his armour.

“Kikimora guts.”

“...Okay. Well.” He makes a vague effort to straighten out his doublet, tugging at the hem with nervous fingers. “I managed to get us a room at the inn. With a bath.”

“Right.” 

Jaskier looks up at him expectantly, like he’s waiting for him to say something more. After a moment, he sighs with a brief roll of his eyes. “I’ll, uh… This way, then.”

He leaves the shattered remains of the lute on the ground, and heads back towards the main street, Geralt following wordlessly behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, the doppler in this fic is based a little more on the game/book version of the doppler than the one in the show, largely because I find them more interesting... and they're a lot more fun when it comes to the reveal. Sorry, Jaskier.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a warning: there is a brief scene in this chapter featuring vomiting.

The tense silence follows them all the way to the inn, Jaskier’s lips remaining tightly shut aside from a brusque greeting to the owner, who stares at the witcher with a mingling of fear and disgust, before heading up to the room. Under different circumstances, Geralt would be happy for the peace and quiet, but right now he’d give anything for the constant stream of chatter to return.

The bard opens the door, waits for Geralt to enter then quickly shuts and bolts it. He leans his head against the wood for a moment, breathing heavily.

“Jaskier—”

“There’s only one bed.” Jaskier gestures to the offending piece of furniture, emotionlessly. “I’ll sleep on the floor.”

“You don’t—”

“It’s fine.”

More terse, heavy silence. Geralt peers around the simple room - a single bed, certainly wide enough for two people, a tub by the fire full of clear water. At a loss for what to do, he swings his swords from his back and places them against the wall before starting the arduous task of removing his armour. The buckles are sticky with blood and gore, half-fused shut. He struggles with them, aware of Jaskier’s gaze on his back, cautiously watching him from a distance like he’s liable to attack at any moment. His fingers slip on a particularly stiff buckle and he swears under his breath. The sound seems to jog Jaskier out of whatever thought he’s dwelling on. 

“Here…” he steps forward and begins to fiddle at the buckles and straps. Geralt stiffens under his touch, keen not to spook the bard more. He watches as he unpicks the first buckle, his nose slightly wrinkled in disgust.

“Thanks.”

Jaskier moves onto the next buckle, wordlessly.

“I thought dopplers were supposed to be, you know… friendly?” He says, finally.

“They certainly looked very friendly.”

Jaskier scowls at him, but there’s a blush playing on his cheekbones.

“Dopplers _are_ friendly,” Geralt continues, feeling a little guilty, “Generally. Just like humans. And just like humans, they’re self-serving, deceitful, and manipulative.”

“…Oh.” 

“Like the one we… the one that tricked you. They aren’t evil or mindless monsters, but they can be... selfish. They show up wearing _my_ face and take _my_ payment, along with…” Geralt lets his eyes fall on Jaskier, “…anything else they might want.” 

Jaskier’s blush deepens, and he unhooks another buckle, threading a strap through and tugging off the first piece of armour. Geralt sighs in relief as he places the heavy, foul-smelling panel on the floor then moves to the next one.

“Are you… alright?” He says, trying to make it sound sincere. Jaskier’s fingers go still. “Did they hurt you?”

There’s a rueful smile on Jaskier’s face. “Not _physically,"_ he says, after a long pause.

“Good.”

Geralt doesn’t probe further. He suspects the bard is in shock – his ceaseless babbling replaced with broken sentences and prolonged silences. They’ve dealt with worse horrors than a doppler before, Jaskier always at the edge of a battle even after _repeated_ warnings to stay back. He’s outrun ghouls, faced down death and, on one memorable occasion, beaten back a sandcrab with a stick. But afterwards, even when covered in blood, he’d always maintained his cheerful demeanour, often more outraged at his ruined clothes than his scrape with death. He’d complain _endlessly_ about ruined shoes, or worse: a battle that wouldn’t make a good song.

He remembers, with a pang of guilt, the smashed lute. There’d be no songs for a while, good or otherwise. Jaskier’s constant singing and endless fiddling on the bloody instrument has been driving him slowly insane for _years._ Now, he finally has that blessed silence he was so desperate for.

Geralt makes a note to redirect their route towards the nearest city with a musicians’ guild and wordlessly says goodbye to the expensive new armour he’s been promising himself. 

Another panel comes away, and Jaskier moves to his other side. He works slowly, in silence, until Geralt is free of the heavy armour. He rolls his shoulders, loosening his stiff muscles with a sigh, happy to be out of his gear, then turns to thank the bard.

Jaskier is standing, pale and silent, the final piece of Geralt’s armour still in his hands. His grip is tight, his fingertips shaking slightly.

“Jaskier.” Geralt gently takes the armour from his hands. The bard blinks a few times, as if coming back from a faraway daydream. “Thank you.” 

He nods, blankly. He lets out a long breath, one he’s been holding for a while. “I am so _stupid,_ Geralt.”

Geralt looks up from where he’s piling the armour on the floor. “What?”

“I am _so_ fucking stupid.” His voice grows louder, breaking a little on the final word, octaves ringing. “Of course it wasn’t you. Of course! I should have realised the moment he… the moment it…” He balls his hands into fists with a groan and pushes past Geralt into the centre of the room. “ _Fuck!"_

“You couldn’t have known—”

“Oh, _oh,_ I couldn’t have known? Don’t be fucking dense, Geralt, of _course_ I could have known.” He begins to pace, Geralt watching him, “I’m sure anyone else would have picked up on the fact that you were acting _totally fucking bizarre,_ but oh no, not me, not Jaskier, the biggest idiot this side of Novigrad…” He stamps up and down the room, shaking his head. “I just… just… _Urgh!"_

He drops down onto the bed, his head in his hands.

“And gods save me, did you _see_ it, Geralt? All grey and lumpy, like, like…” he shudders, his face pale, lips shaking, “like rotten meat. I can’t… its _tongue_ was in my _mouth!_ And I was going to… we were going to…” He shudders again, eyes wide, looking panicked, “Oh, gods, I think I’m going to be sick.”

“Ah—”

“No, I am _definitely_ going to be sick, fuck—”

Jaskier stands, suddenly, desperate, and Geralt grabs the nearest thing he can – a vase, with a sad looking bunch of wilted flowers in it. He tosses the flowers to the floor and throws the vase at Jaskier, who grabs it with the briefest look of thanks before vomiting into it noisily. 

When he’s finished, he looks sheepishly up at Geralt, his face red and his eyes streaming. Geralt feels a pang of guilt – and regret.

“You were right,” he says, gently taking the vase back and placing it as far away as possible, “I should have killed them.”

Jaskier doesn’t say anything, just wipes his mouth with the sleeve of his doublet. They stand there in silence for what feels like an age before Jaskier finally speaks again.

“I’m going for a walk.”

“Jaskier…”

“Its fine. I just need some air.”

He’s gone before Geralt can think of a way to stop him, the heavy wooden door slamming behind him. He waits, for a moment, in case he changes his mind and returns – but nothing happens.

He peers down at the mess of his clothes. Right.

Geralt peels off the ruined tunic and trousers, heaping them in a pile in the corner of the room, ready to be thrown away later. Had he returned more quickly, they could have been salvaged, but now they’ve absorbed too much kikimora stink to be of use to him anymore. He pulls his hair from its knot and throws the plain, black ribbon into the corner as well, wincing at the way the congealed gunk pulls at his hair. He lowers himself into the clear bathwater. It’s not as hot as he’d prefer, but the copper tub has been hauled close enough to the roaring fire that it’s at least lukewarm, and the water feels good around his aching muscles. The lingering remains of kikimora guts slough off into the water, turning it an unpleasant grey colour, and he ducks his head beneath the surface, worrying at his hair with his fingernails.

From outside, there’s a low rumble, followed quickly by the rushing patter of rain on the rooftop. Shit. He hopes Jaskier is okay; hopes he’s gone back to the tavern to drown his sorrows rather than walking around in the deluge. 

Next to the tub is an acrid bar of yellow soap, which he grabs and starts to scrub himself with. He starts with his hair, trying to work the bar into a lather so he can get the worst of the blood out. It’s a sticky mess, full of knots, and his too-large hands aren’t made for this sort of delicate work. Jaskier’s taken to washing his hair for him lately, and while at first he complained about the bard fussing over him he’s gotten used to it. He’s more thorough than Geralt is, better at gently teasing out tangles. 

Geralt lets him clean his hair because he does a better job of it. It’s not because he likes the way his fingernails massage his scalp. It’s not because he likes the intimacy of it, the closeness, the gentle touch of skin on skin. It’s not because he likes the smell of Jaskier’s breath over his shoulder – chamomile and sweet wildflowers and ale, if they’ve been lucky. He imagines the feeling of Jaskier’s fingers in his hair now, his breath in his ear. The memory of the bard pressed against the doppler flashes through his mind, the way he’d grabbed at them, the way he’d moaned Geralt’s name. He feels himself hardening once more.

No. It’s absurd. He shouldn’t think about Jaskier like that; certainly not after today. He rubs the bar into a lather between his hands and gets to work removing the kikimora blood, trying to distract himself. He roughly scrubs at his skin, getting it clear of blood and mud and shit, trying to ignore his body. Anyone would react similarly if they’d seen what he’s seen today, if they’d heard someone like Jaskier moan his name like _that._ He scrubs harder at himself, even though he’s now thoroughly clean, scowling. Finally, he rinses the bubbles off, leaning back in the cooling water with a huff. He sighs, closing his eyes, and sinks into the tub, letting the water rise past his ears and listening to the muffled sound of his own heartbeat. Even underwater, he can still hear the rain outside, the downpour growing heavier. There’s a sudden flash followed by a crack of thunder so loud it makes the building shake. His eyes snap open.

_Fuck._

He threads his fingers through his hair once more beneath the water, rinsing away the final suds, then rises from the bath in one fluid motion. The dirty grey water splashes as he stands, spilling over the edges of the tub and onto the floor as he steps out. There's a slightly grimy looking sheet hanging by the fire, which he grabs, quickly patting himself down before dropping it to the floor. Still slightly wet, he spots his pack on the bed - Jaskier must have left it there when he acquired the room - and rifles through it before finding a clean pair of trousers and loose, black tunic. 

There's another heavy rumble of thunder and he hurries to tug on the trousers, the light fabric sticking to his damp skin as he hops, undignified, trying to pull them up. The rain outside is coming down in sheets, buffeting at the tiny, vibrating window. He heaves the trousers over his hips and gets to work on the laces.

_Stupid bloody…_

The door swings open. There’s Jaskier, drenched to the bone, his clothes clinging to him. His hair is plastered to his face in dark, messy stands. His eyes are red and puffy. He steps into the room, and it’s immediately clear that he’s freezing – his whole body is shaking, his teeth chattering noisily together.

“It’s raining,” he says. 

Geralt swallows heavily. “I was coming to find you.”

“Oh.”

“I assumed you’d be back in the tavern, not… wandering about in the rain.”

Jaskier sniffs noisily, still shivering. “I’m a _poet,_ Geralt. Wandering about in the rain is what I _do."_

“You’re going to freeze to death is what you’re doing to do,” he murmurs. “Not very _bardic_ to be taken down by the fucking flu.”

“Yes, well.” Apparently, that’s answer enough. Geralt sighs.

“Get in front of the fire and take off those wet clothes before you catch a fever.” 

To his surprise, Jaskier complies, wetly trudging towards the hearth. After a moment basking in the warmth, he attempts to untie the laces of the doublet, his hands quivering, fingers pale and wrinkled. He appears to be struggling – either the shivering or the numbing cold rendering his fingers useless. Geralt watches for a moment as he tugs uselessly on the silken ribbons then steps forwards, pushing his hands out of the way. 

Jaskier freezes under his hands, and Geralt realises how inappropriate the gesture is given the circumstances. He’s about to pull away, when Jaskier speaks.

“Thank you.” It’s quiet, stuttered through chattering teeth. Geralt nods, and begins to tug at the laces.

The doublet comes away easily, although the design makes it a tangle of near-incomprehensible laces and plaits. Its showy but impractical, and Geralt suspects the fabric is ruined. Beneath it, Jaskier is wearing a lighter blue tunic, tied to his throat with another soft chord. Gently, Geralt tugs the chord away.

Jaskier’s more than capable of undressing himself now the endless knots have been undone, so he steps back to give him more room to breathe. The bard, still shivering, begins to tug the tunic out from the waistband of his trousers. As he does, the fabric slips, revealing the length of his neck and there – just above his collarbone – a dark purple bruise.

Geralt’s got his hand over the mark before he can stop himself, thumb hovering over the damaged skin. Jaskier lets out a little gasp, his breath catching in his throat.

“You said they didn’t hurt you.” It’s a statement – not a question. Jaskier’s still trembling, and his mouth hangs open for a moment.

“Come, Geralt,” he says, a nervous smile on his face, “I’ve seen the kinds of women you chase. Surely you’re not _that_ naïve?” 

It takes Geralt a moment to realise what he means, and when he does he snatches his hand away. 

“Ah.”

“Ah _indeed."_ Jaskier seems to be relaxing, settling into the familiar pattern of teasing his friend. He spots Geralt scowling at the mark. “What? Don’t get all puritanical on me now, Geralt, it’s a bit late for all that.”

“Hmm.” 

Jaskier folds his arms across his chest, the thin tunic sticking close to his skin. “ _What?"_

“They _marked_ you. Like you’re _theirs."_

Jaskier raises his eyebrows and Geralt desperately tries to ignore the sound of the bard’s thumping heart, the bouquet of hot and sordid smells seeping from his skin.

“That’s rather the _point,_ isn’t it?” He says, uncrossing his arms and peering down at the bruise, pressing at it with a slender finger, “Although now it’s just… an unpleasant reminder. Anyway,” he looks back up, defiant, “It’s not like I belong to anyone else, is it?” 

_Yes, yes, yes. You do._ Geralt bites back the words back. 

“There’s a salve in the pack,” he says instead, “It’ll get rid of the bruise.”

The bard pokes at the mark again, looking a little sad. “I suppose that’s probably for the best.”

Geralt turns to the bag on the bed and begins to rummage through it as Jaskier continues to undress. He’s aware of him laying his sodden clothes on the hearth with a sigh, then moving around behind him, finding his own pack and fresh clothes. He can hear the soft padding of his bare feet on the wooden floor. He focuses on looking through his various vials and bottles and pots, aware that the bard is moving around the room completely naked.

It takes him a little longer than usual to find the salve, buried at the bottom of the pack in a little yellow pot, and by the time he’s turned around Jaskier is pulling on a fresh tunic, looking a little more comfortable.

He hands him the pot, which he takes with a small smile, then twists it open. A harsh, vinegary smell fills the room. Jaskier gags.

“Urgh, Geralt!”

“It’s potent. Don’t use too much.”

Jaskier wrinkles his nose in disgust as he dips a finger into the greyish salve and starts to rub it on the mark. He winces a little – the salve feels hot and tingly, Geralt knows, and stings over bruised skin.

“How long…?” He asks, trying to rub all the excess into his skin.

“It’ll be gone by the morning.”

He nods. “Good. Just like me, then.”

“What?” 

“I’ll be gone in the morning. I’ll finally be out of your hair, Geralt, off to pastures new.” 

“Gone?”

“Well,” his cheeks flush, not unpleasantly, “I can’t _stay,_ can I? Not after…” He twirls his hand around in Geralt’s direction, “…all this.” 

_Ah._ Of course not. This ordeal is the final straw, clearly. It’s not like Geralt is surprised about his choice to leave; it’s only fair. He can only imagine how unpleasant it would be for the bard to traipse around the countryside with a companion wearing the face of someone who tried to trick him. Every time Jaskier looks at him he must only be able to see the doppler wriggling underneath his skin. 

Jaskier twists the lid back onto the salve then walks across the room, tossing it onto the bed before heading to peer out of the window at the rain, his back to Geralt. Fear hangs in the air as he talks.

“I mean, Geralt, I _know_ you’re exceptionally good at the pretending-to-not-have-feelings thing you’ve so meticulously practised over the years, but even _you_ can’t deny that me staying would just be awkward for you, surely?” He doesn’t wait for Geralt to respond, just prattles on, “I mean, if it were _me,_ and _I’d_ just found my friend snogging my doppelganger down a dark alleyway I’d...” he thinks, for a moment, “Well, _no,_ I wouldn’t, considering. But the point stands! I don’t want my presence to be a burden to you. I don’t want my…” The smell of fear suddenly grows sharp, like sour lemons. Jaskier takes a deep breath. “... my _feelings_ about you to be a burden.”

Geralt’s first thought is that Jaskier’s been a burden to him for several years now, so what difference will several more make? His second thought is chastising himself – no, Jaskier _isn’t_ a burden. Not anymore, at least. He hasn’t been for some time.

His third thought, which is slow and sluggish and hits him with the impact of a feral monster, is _wait, feelings?_

Jaskier turns away from the window, the skin from his neck to his ears now flushed. He’s clearly waiting for a response.

“…Feelings?” It’s all Geralt can think to say.

“I _swear_ you’re being deliberately dense, sometimes. _Obviously_ it’s unfair for me to hang around if it’s going to be—” his eyes go wide. “Wait. Geralt?”

“Hmm.”

“Afterwards. You were worried that I’d been… cursed or drugged or something. You said I was acting, what was it you said?”

“Different.” 

“Yes, _different._ Now, Geralt, I don’t want to hurt your apparently very delicate sensibilities but under what fucking sun does me grinding against you in an alley constitute me acting _different?"_

Geralt is stunned into silence. “It’s… not something you’ve done before.” That’s true, at least.

“Not through lack of fucking _trying!"_

_"What?"_

Jaskier raises his arms in frustration. “Is _that_ why you’re being weird? You thought that thing had fucking _magicked_ me into kissing it?”

“I—”

“Because, Geralt, that is _extremely_ not the case. It barely had to say _anything_ before I was… urgh!” He stomps around the room, wringing his hands, “And, of course, _that’s_ why I feel so spectacularly stupid! Because if I hadn’t been so caught up in the whole damn thing I would have realised that the _real_ you would certainly _not_ have kissed me like that, or pressed me against a wall, or whispered into my _fucking_ ear!”

Geralt takes a step towards the bard, dodging his flailing hands, “Jaskier…”

“You’re all gruff and brooding and moody and, look, I _love_ that for you, but it doesn’t take a bloody genius to realise—”

“Jaskier!”

_"What?"_

He kisses him, partly to shut him up and partly because he doesn’t know how else to show the bard how wrong he is. Jaskier makes a muffled little noise of surprise against his lips – nothing like the happy noise he’d made when kissing the doppler – and Geralt immediately backs away.

“I, ah—”

“Oh, _fuck."_ Jaskier mutters, his hand fluttering up to his mouth, touching his lips. He stares at Geralt, confused, eyes sparkling. “Geralt—”

He can’t tell if that was a bad idea or not. Jaskier looks shocked, more than anything. He blinks at him, his mouth open, lips shining.

“I saw you in the tavern.” Geralt spits it out. He needs to tell him; needs him to know how much he saw. “I waited for you to leave so it would be safer for me to step in. But… I didn’t step in. I followed you.” 

“You _followed_ us?” Jaskier finds his voice again, “Why not… why not stop it?”

“I thought they might attack you if they were startled.” He winced. “Watching you was… I hated it. They hurt you.”

Jaskier waves a dismissive hand. “It was just a bruise, Geralt.”

“Not that. They _hurt_ you, Jaskier. They tricked you into those things and you were _right:_ I should have killed them for them doing that to you.” 

“Well it's too late for all that now.”

“No it’s not. I could track them. Doppler’s don’t have a distinctive scent, but…”

“But?”

He concedes. “They'll smell of you.”

“Oh.” Jaskier licks his lips. “No. I want you to stay more than I want that thing dead.”

“Okay.” 

There’s a prolonged silence, aside from the sound of Jaskier’s heartbeat. “It must have been… interesting… seeing that. _Enlightening."_

“Fuck off. I hated it. I wanted to leap in there and slice their fucking head off.”

Jaskier peers at him.

“Were you _jealous?"_ He raises a single, smug eyebrow. 

Geralt narrows his eyes at the bard, refusing to provide an answer.

“Oh, _Melitele,_ was it hot?” 

Geralt swallows.

“Oh, you voyeur, you _pervert!"_ The words are venomous but Jaskier’s grinning cheekily, his eyes dark and sparkling. He takes a little step forward and dances a hand over Geralt’s shoulder, not quite making contact. “Did you _like it?"_ He whispers, looking up at Geralt beneath his eyelashes.

Geralt growls at him, the noise rumbling from his chest. It’s the sort of instinctive response that would send any rational human running, but Jaskier just grins more, pinning his bottom lip beneath his teeth.

“I won’t judge you if you say yes, you know.” He continues, smirking. “… much.” 

“If I hadn’t stopped it…” 

“But you did. Not before getting a long _hard_ look at me grinding on your leg like a fucking incubus, might I add." 

“Not my leg.”

“Certainly looked a lot like your leg.” He suddenly thrusts out a hand, grabbing onto Geralt’s thigh with nimble fingers. His hand seems small compared to the bulk of Geralt’s muscles. He squeezes. “Certainly _felt_ a lot like your leg.”

Geralt wants to grab him, wants to wrap his hands around his waist and pull him towards him, to smother his endless talking under his lips. He wants to hear him moan again. But Jaskier, for all his bravado, was shaken earlier. He was scared, and angry, and betrayed. Geralt doesn’t want to push him into something he doesn’t want.

“Jaskier…”

“Look. It was shitty. It _is_ shitty, now, realising what that thing was. But…” his chest rises and falls, and he’s still close, his hand still on Geralt’s leg. “I was quite enjoying myself. At the time.” 

Oh, to hell with it.

“I could tell.” He says, with a grin. Jaskier’s blush deepens and Geralt continues, enjoying teasing him. He leans in until he’s just an inch from the bard’s ear. “I’ve never heard you say my name like _that_ before.” 

“Well,” Jaskier stares him down, like they’re in an entirely new kind of battle, “You’ve never given me good reason to.” 

Geralt smirks, then hooks his hand around Jaskier’s waist, tugging him closer. He takes a moment to take in Jaskier’s eager eyes, and his pink lips, which are slightly parted. He’s clearly taking too long, because Jaskier makes an impatient huffing sound and then, suddenly, he’s kissing him. Geralt lets out a low hum of surprise, and feels the bard smile against his mouth at the response. His lips are soft and supple, moving against Geralt’s with practised ease, and Geralt tightens his grip on his hips. Jaskier moans.

The effect is like lightning, like _magic._ Geralt can feel his body light up with desire, suddenly hyper aware of the nerve endings across his body springing to life. He can feel his own heartbeat in his fingertips and he grips harder onto the bard, his tunic slipping beneath his fingers. He opens his mouth and Jaskier follows the movement - then there’s the wetness of a tongue on his lips, and his mouth explodes with the sweet taste of Jaskier and the hot, salty smell of lust. His cock stiffens in his breeches, desperate, and judging by the hardness pressing against his hip he’s having a similar effect on Jaskier.

Jaskier’s hands are roaming across his body - starting at the base of his neck, tugging on his hair, then down his neck, down his chest. He reaches Geralt’s waistband, grabs his tunic and tugs it free, pulling it up and ripping it away. It drops to the floor at their feet.

Geralt traps his plump bottom lip beneath his teeth and Jaskier gasps against him, gripping onto his shoulders with his nails. He guides them towards the bed, and Jaskier collapses sideways onto it, pulling Geralt down on top of him. 

He tugs the soft fabric of Jaskier’s tunic off over his head, Jaskier twisting out of the sleeves, and tosses it to the floor. Jaskier leans back, staring at him with dark, twinkling eyes. He runs a hand up the bard’s bare skin, marvelling at how soft it is, tracing with his fingers the hairs that spill across his chest and down his torso towards his navel then down, down to the waistband of his trousers. He lets his hands roam, touching him all over, rubbing a thumb over one of Jaskier’s nipples and grinning when the bard moans again and bucks his hips beneath him. 

He hums happily, then presses his free hand into the soft skin of Jaskier’s hipbone and repeats the motion with his thumb. Jaskier gasps - then suddenly goes still under Geralt’s hands. His breath catches in his chest, and his heart begins to thump. The warm, intoxicating scent of lust is suddenly gone, replaced with a sharp and sudden tang of fear. Geralt freezes.

“Jaskier-”

“I’m fine!” His voice cracks, a little too high.

“You’re not fine.”

Jaskier pushes himself up on his elbows so they’re face to face. “I’m _fine."_ He insists, flushed and frustrated, “don’t stop.”

Geralt leans back with a sigh. “Witcher senses, Jaskier. Your breathing is shallow, your heart…” he places his hand gently on Jaskier’s chest, “is too fast.” The bard is about to argue when he cuts him off. “I can _smell_ your fear, Jaskier.” 

It sounds like a threat - makes him sound like a monster. Geralt goes to move his hand from Jaskier's chest but he stops him, grabbing his hand, keeping it pressed against him.

“I just…” Jaskier breaks his gaze, looking away, “I keep thinking about it. Imagining…” he shudders. 

“We can stop.”

“But I don’t _want_ to stop,” he whines, familiarly petulant.

“Hmm. It won’t kill you to wait.”

Jaskier groans in response, clearly unconvinced. Geralt rolls his eyes and settles himself on the bed next to him.

“I want you to be comfortable. Anyway,” he adds, self-consciously aware of how close he is to sounding _sentimental,_ “The smell of fear is a mood killer.”

Jaskier snorts, then wriggles around so he’s facing Geralt, eyes darting around his face. “You don’t mind?”

“I don’t mind. We can get food and wine sent up. I can tell you about the kikimora for one of your songs. Or we can do this…” He traces his hand lightly up and down Jaskier’s torso. “And tomorrow evening, I’ll fuck you until your knees give out.” Jaskier makes a soft, startled choking noise and blushes furiously. “Or are you still going to leave?”

Jaskier sighs, as if Geralt has ruined his fun. “It was going to be very dramatic, you know. Very tragic. You were going to run out into the street after me, calling my name. I would have turned around, of course. But not before making you chase me.”

“Hmm.”

“But considering the _circumstances_ …” Jaskier smiles, and lazily stretches out his limbs with a sinful _hum,_ “I suppose I can stay. Till tomorrow evening, at the very least.” 

Geralt leaves the bed - rolling over the top of Jaskier to do so - and grabs the tunic from the floor and pulls it back on. He can feel Jaskier’s eyes on him as he moves, sensing the mingled smells of lust and anxiety.

“I’ll be back.” 

When he returns, the bard has twisted himself up in the bed sheets, arms wrapped around the single lumpy pillow provided by the inn. Geralt enters, a bottle of wine in one hand and a laden plate in the other, and Jaskier's eyes snap open. They’re a little red around the edges.

Geralt places the food and drink on the small, rickety table next to the bed and pulls the bard from the cocoon of blankets. He holds him until he stops shaking.

In the morning, golden sunlight spills through the tiny window onto the bed. They bask in the pleasant warmth for a while in a tangle of limbs, neither keen to let the other go. After a dozen lazy kisses, they finally extract themselves from the bed and head back to the tavern down the street, searching for the alderman. They find him easily enough, and he’s shocked - though not, perhaps, surprised - to see the witcher pushing his door open with such force that it nearly flies off of its hinges.

Geralt explains everything - nearly everything - and accepts the loss of coin for the drowners but demands payment for the kikimora. The alderman complies, eyeing the swords slung to Geralt’s back nervously, and even adds a small bonus for dispatching the doppler. There’s a flash of anger in the his eyes when Geralt describes the form-changing mimic: clearly Jaskier wasn't the only one they tricked.

A portion of their coin is spent in the tavern, where the landlord points them in the direction of the nearest city with a guild of musicians. It’s a four day ride East, but the fine weather seems to be holding out and after last night’s deluge the air smells like sweet, fresh earth: perfect for travelling. 

They sit far away from the corner where the doppler and Jaskier been drinking last night, the tavern nearly empty in the middle of the day. Jaskier’s leg is no longer bouncing beneath the table, but Geralt lets his hand rest on his knee anyway.

They spend the rest of the day in their room, booked for another night. Geralt makes good on his promise, trying to recall the details of his fight with the kikimora. Jaskier takes notes in the little book he’s always carrying around, but is distracted by an idea for a different song, a song about fate and truth and disguises.

They send for fresh water for the bath, and once the water is hot sink into it together, Jaskier’s back pressed against Geralt’s chest. For once, Geralt bathes Jaskier, wondering at how fragile he feels under his hands. Jaskier, in turn, chastises Geralt for the poor job he made of his _own_ hair, pulling out oils and scented soaps from his bag and massaging away the last lingering traces of blood. Geralt leans on him, feeling the bard’s hot breath on his shoulder, smelling of chamomile and sweet wildflowers and salt - the anxiety finally gone.

When he turns in the bath to kiss him, he can feel Jaskier’s pulse quicken in his neck, and this time he knows that its not fear that’s making his heart beat like that. 

The bruise on Jaskier’s neck is gone, healed in the night. Geralt replaces it with one of his own - then another - then a trail of them; one over his ribs, one on his hip, one on his thigh. Jaskier chokes his name out in little gasps. Later, it's his turn, and Jaskier’s name sounds like a song escaping his lips.

Evening draws in, and the sky outside the little window goes from blue, to orange, to pink.

They fuck each other until both their knees give out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Feel like you want more dopplers?? GOOD NEWS: I've also written this fic from Jaskier's POV, [which you can find here!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22791283/chapters/54464137) A brief warning: this is a lot more emotionally fraught from Jaskier's point of view as it delves a little deeper into fake identities/dubcon issues at play here. But y'all already know how it ends, so it's not all terrible.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my gosh, I can't believe I've been writing Geraskier fic for a WHOLE YEAR. To celebrate, I'm posting this: a (much shorter) chapter from the Doppler's point of view. I wrote this just after I posted Jaskier's version, but never posted it because I wasn't sure if it was necessary. Anyway, a year later, I've decided less "necessary" and more "fuck it", so here we are.
> 
> If you enjoyed this, and haven't yet read Jaskier's POV, you can find it [here!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22791283/chapters/54464137)

Folan had been following the witcher for about a week. When they first came across him on the near-deserted road, they changed their form into that of a peasant – humble and unassuming. They’d realised who the witcher was almost immediately, with his yellow eyes and silver hair. The White Wolf, the Butcher of Blaviken, Geralt of Rivia. He had been alone. They had asked the witcher where he was headed, and he had grunted at them and said something about a drowner problem in a village a few days' ride away. 

The doppler knew the village. They knew of the so-called drowner problem, too. They waited until the witcher had passed them then slipped into the trees, changed form, and followed close behind. 

It was a dangerous gamble, Folan knew. But they were desperate. They needed to get out of these shitty little villages and back into a city where they could exist more peacefully. In some of the more sympathetic communities they could even find work as themselves – as a doppler – without needing to disguise themselves as human. They’d thought, perhaps foolishly, that they might find themselves in travel, in walking the continent. There was something romantic, almost, about the idea of a nomadic lifestyle. 

The reality, of course, was that the land was blighted by war and monsters and more mud than Folan had ever seen in their life. No: the city was the place for them, of that much they were certain. 

The only way out, though, was money. And the villagers were poor and foolish and too busy dealing with drowners and hags and curses to spare any change for a traveller looking for work. So Folan did what they had to do – changing forms, slipping into someone else’s skin just for a _moment_ , for long enough to collect their pay, to eat at their hearth. 

Despite the risk, it worked, although they’d never followed anyone like the witcher before. But the man was following a contract, and a contract meant good coin – enough coin, perhaps, to get them back into civilisation. 

The witcher would go by road, Folan assumed, so they trudged through the forest. They moved quickly, aiming to get to the village before he did, keeping out of his way. They arrived only a few hours ahead of him, and had been wearing the face of a farmhand when the witcher had appeared, peeking out at him between the cracks in the rotting wood of the stable. 

The witcher was no longer alone. He had a companion – a younger man with a lute strapped to his back. The famous bard. Folan let their gaze linger on him for a moment, on his fine clothes, his pleasing face, the careless way he swayed as he walked. 

The witcher found the man who’d sent out word of their infestation and was quickly on his way. This would be easy. He would be gone far longer than he was expecting, thanks to the small problem of the murderous monster waiting for him in the swamp. Folan knew about the kikimora, of course: They’d been in the area for nearly two months and had watched mercenaries run in, swords swinging and ready to kill a handful of drowners, only to find themselves sucked into the stomach of the slimy beast. They’d even considered, for a mad moment, assuming the form of a fighter and taking it on themselves: But that was an even worse idea than leaving the city in the first place. 

This new plan, formed around the witcher, was far less likely to end with them slowly dissolving in a kikimora’s digestive tract. While the witcher was busy killing it, they could sneak back into the village and take the original payment for the six drowners. By the time the witcher returned, they would be gone. The witcher wouldn’t miss out, either: Folan knew that he’d be able to slay the beast, and whatever coin the villagers gave him in exchange for its head would be worth more than the meagre amount that Folan stole. 

So they’d waited – waited for as long as they thought it took to kill half a dozen drowners – then returned to the village, slightly dirtied, ready to claim the money and sneak away into the night. 

The alderman who’d listed the contract was in the tavern, and Folan had pushed through the crush of people to find him. The hubbub had fallen silent at their presence and the patrons parted around them. They _enjoyed_ being Geralt of Rivia, enjoyed this feeling of power. 

And then something unexpected had happened. 

The bard. He’d been there too, waiting for them – waiting for _Geralt_. This was an unforeseen problem - a flaw in their plan. The bard would follow Geralt of Rivia no matter where he went: that’s where the songs had come from, after all. 

Yet… the bard was not altogether unpleasant company. Of late, Folan hadn’t spent much time around company which was not unpleasant. 

They had hesitated. The unique quirk of their powers had given them access to all of the witcher’s thoughts, all of his memories, and they had quickly dived into those murky waters to learn a little more about the man with the lute strapped to his back and the twinkling eyes. 

_Jaskier_. Bread, elves, music. Constant chatter, constant annoyance. Being saved, being tricked, being _there_. Dark nights, hard ground. Sharing beds. Sharing bath water. Bright, dazzlingly blue eyes. Blue eyes staring at them from over the rim of a glass, blue eyes wrinkled in exasperation, blue eyes wincing in pain, laughing at a shitty joke. Singing, the clink of coins, the taste of ale on someone else’s tongue. Folan dove in, searching through memories, watching them surface one by one. Walking at his side. Riding beside him. Silk and satin and linen. They probed more, diving deeper still, and then – 

_Ah_. 

They weren’t the only one who was intrigued by Jaskier, it seemed. It was over in an instant – to the bard, they would have appeared lost in thought for just a second. To Folan, it felt like a lifetime. Like years of travel and close companionship. 

This was the curse of being a doppler. Disentangling their thoughts from those of whoever they were imitating. Where did their thoughts end and someone else’s begin? One never could tell, not really. Folan knew they should leave, should hurry away with the stolen money towards the nearest city. But they were fascinated by the bard, by his bright eyes, by the curls of hair peeking past the collar of his shirt. The bard – his name is _Jaskier_ , their memory spat back at them – was attractive and attentive. Beneath Folan’s interest, though, and so much stronger, was a sea of churning memories. Unspoken thoughts. Stolen glances. Stares that lasted just a fraction too long, lingering on tight clothes, exposed skin. 

_So this is why the witcher keeps him around_ , they thought. 

Folan could spare one evening before going on their way. It would take several more hours to hunt and kill a kikimora, after all. 

Taking on someone else’s form was unsettling. Folan was used to it now, but there was a duality there that was difficult to escape. Becoming someone else meant far more than just _resembling_ them, it meant _becoming_ them, just for a few hours. They _were_ whoever it was they were pretending to be – right down to the minutiae of accents, speech patterns – even their sense of humour. 

The witcher’s body was especially hard to navigate – highly tuned and over-stimulated with sounds and sights and smells. Jaskier was easy to focus on, his bawdiness, his unfettered truthfulness. They couldn’t help but stare at him. 

And then Jaskier had _flirted_ with them. Folan wasn’t sure which part of them had flirted back – the part that was _them_ , or the part that was Geralt. They doubted the real witcher had ever behaved like this, judging by the sparkling surprise in the bard’s eyes. 

Jaskier _was_ surprised, that first moment when Folan responded in kind, but there was no horror or revulsion there. In fact, he leant in closer, wet his lips with his tongue, and Folan had basked in the tingling effect it had on them _and_ on the body they were inhabiting. They searched through Geralt’s memories again, but found nothing: this was new for both of them. 

They _wanted_ him. They wanted all of him. And – the greedy thought shot across their mind – why shouldn’t they have him? Clearly the witcher wasn’t going to act on these latent, powerful feelings. The witcher had no _claim_ to the bard, no _rights_. 

Folan wanted him, and evidently the bard wanted them back. 

Everything happened rather quickly. Folan had learnt, after a year on the road, to act with caution – but caution was soon thoroughly discarded in favour of the feeling of Jaskier’s fingers skimming over the back of their hand. When they followed him from the pub, their elbows knocking together, Folan wasn’t sure where they ended and the real Geralt began. Moments later, they weren’t sure where Jaskier began in the tangle either. 

When the real Geralt showed up – inevitably, terribly – Folan didn’t really have a plan for what they intended to do next. Geralt teased them, mocking how they could never keep up the charade. He was right, of course. And now, faced with the man himself, they knew there was more than just his training that made the witcher tremble with rage like that. This wasn’t just monster hunting: not that Folan considered themselves to be a monster. 

This was jealousy. Folan had been an intruder in the witcher’s mind for a few hours, now, and had bathed in all those hidden little feelings, soaked in them. The witcher, they suspected, was being deliberately antagonistic not just to lure them away but also to relieve that hot, bubbling envy. 

But why should the witcher have Jaskier? Folan didn’t doubt the strength of Geralt’s feelings - they were unmistakable and unmissable - but what right did Geralt have to jealousy when he’d been so determined to let those feelings lie dormant for what, as far as Folan could tell, had been years? 

They went in fighting, their mind raging with anger and possessiveness. 

And they lost, of course. They knew they would – but couldn’t bring themselves to capitulate until they had no choice. They’d hoped, blindly, that there could be some victory in defeat: perhaps Jaskier, who in the bar and on the path and pressed desperately against the cold stone wall had been soft and gentle and _good_ , could see through the deceit and instead focus on the things that had motivated it: real, _true_ feelings, willingly given. 

But he couldn’t. Of course he couldn’t. 

Jaskier was horrified, and the disgust in his eyes was worse than the pain in Folan’s neck where the silver cut them, the ache of being thoroughly beaten. They slunk away into the darkness, cursing themselves, cursing Geralt of Rivia. 

They paused, in the shadow of the street, to look back at the witcher and his bard. There was distrust in Jaskier’s eyes – distrust and fear. The witcher took a step towards him and he backed away, hands defensively high. Folan felt a twang of smug satisfaction at that, quickly followed by bitterness, a half-twist of guilt. 

_Treat him well, witcher._ They thought to themselves as they sped away into the darkness. _Give in to him, and treat him well._

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Push Me To Tears, Sweet Boy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23136334) by [So_u_like_pkmn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/So_u_like_pkmn/pseuds/So_u_like_pkmn)




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